War Knows No Favorites
by Zalgo Jenkins
Summary: Continuation / AU for Stirling's Island in the Sea of Time. It's been seven years since William Walker defeated the Allies in Anatolia, and six since his assassination. But empires don't run themselves, and his son Harold finds himself dealing with sadomasochistic high priestesses, Danubian tribesmen, and an inconvenient little civil war in Pharaoh's Egypt...
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:  
**

**It's been a little while since I've read ISoT, but I thought I'd give this a shot. At least for a chapter or two to see how it goes.**

**A Short Introduction To "Island in the Sea of Time" [WARNING: Spoilers]**

So for those who aren't familiar with it, _Island in the Sea of Time_ and its two sequels describe what happens when the modern island of Nantucket - along with its 4,000-ish inhabitants - gets teleported to 1250 BC, complete with all of the houses, machines, roads, etc.

The Nantucketers start gearing down to more sustainable Victorian-era technology. In the meantime, they fight two wars against a renegade Coast Guard officer named William Walker, who tries to carve his own kingdom out of Bronze Age Europe.

Oh, and it was written by S.M. Stirling (yes, _that_ S.M. Stirling, of Draka fame), so it's got plenty of violence, hypercompetent villains, and grimdark to go around. Not that that's a bad thing.

**Point of Divergence:**

This fic diverges from the series late in the third book. Walker beats the combined armies of the Republic of Nantucket, the Hittite Empire, and the Babylonians. He manages to nab Anatolia before getting assassinated more or less on schedule, along with Alice Hong (his pet sadist) and Althea (his daughter).

But his son Harold survives.

* * *

**Mycenae, ca. 17 A.E. (ca. 1233 B.C.)**

Birds twittered. Sunshine peeked through oak trees. I allowed myself to close my eyes for a second, and breathed in. None of Neayoruk's smog here.

I've always preferred groves to temples. Hollow trees or interlaced laurel boughs work fine in a pinch. And speaking personally, air and sunlight do wonders for piety.

But maybe that's just because of buildings like the Walkerium.

It had been built over the ruins of an older palace shrine, which in turn had dated back to the days when we still believed that gods visited the king's _megaron _rather than living in their own temples. Like most buildings from the early days, Dad had built it large and blocky. Art and sculpture books hadn't been high on his list of priorities when he'd hijacked Nantucket's fastest ship.

We approached the stone threshold. A golden breastplate was nailed above it – spoils from my Ringapi campaign. Some Danubian chieftain wouldn't be needing it anymore.

The city's matrons had been marching around the heap of stones for hours. Unlike the Nantucketers, we preferred our altars outside. Some worshippers had hung Shang silk robes in the grove. Others had offered gold bands.

I smelled the sizzling thigh-fat of bulls and goats, and coughed on the wood-smoke. Fortunately, most of it was wafting skyward, where our assorted divinities could enjoy it.

A youngish woman in a long black dress greeted me. She tossed her hair and grinned, displaying spotless white teeth – the product of an intersection between our own shortage of refined sugars and her training in "dentistry". And yes, the quotation marks are intentional.

"_Harry_," she said. "So glad you could join us."

Oholotarix tensed at my elbow – partly from the informality, and partly, I suspected, from having to spend time at close quarters with her.

I assembled a smile.

"And how's my favorite cult leader doing?" I said.

Kylefra affected a pout, and then smiled back.

"Surviving. Shall we go in?" she said.

I nodded.

The three of us entered the Walkerium's inner darkness. Even torchlight barely allowed you to navigate inside that massive, windowless building. We went in without one.

Skulls lined the walls. Most were trophies from Dad's wars, but I'm willing to bet that the resident mystery cult had put a decentish number of them there as well. Mostly the artistically mutilated ones with precisely drilled holes.

There's a difference between religion and _organized _religion, and the Sisterhood of the Lady of Pain had exploited that difference to the fullest.

Before Alice Hong had brought her private religious movement into Achaea, Achaean priests had pretty much kept to themselves. Each temple had been independent. Delians hadn't messed with Delphians, and Delphians hadn't messed with Delians. Which was fine, since most priests had worked at a day job. They'd worn fillets on their head for special occasions, foretold a plague every now and again, and that was that.

The Dark Sisterhood, Cult of the Lady of Pain, _Despotnia Algeos_, et cetera, was different. It was centralized. Years before, Alice Hong had designed it as one-third religious sisterhood, one-third secret police, and one-third creepy finishing school for Achaean noblewomen.

Which would have been fine, except that Alice had also been a sadomasochistic cannibal. Who'd designed all their rituals.

…Yeah.

And don't get me started on their "ninjettes".

Kylefra had been the founder's foremost pupil, and was now the high priestess. Her reddish-brown hair, high cheekbones, and freckles marked her as an Alban. Iraiina, to be exact.

Alice had recruited her young. The phrase "harmful to minors" came to mind. Not that Kylefra hadn't relished every minute of it, mind you. Her decision to adopt her mentor's irreverent attitude could also get annoying.

"Somebody wants to meet you," she said.

"In other words, _you _want me to meet somebody," I said.

"Bingo."

She'd said it in English. Even with years of practice, her Iraiina accent still clipped the syllables and gave them a guttural undertone.

Kylefra leaned close and whispered in my ear. Her breaths were warm and heavy on my neck. My skin tingled.

"I have a _surprise _for you, Harry."

I nearly choked on my tongue.

When I was twelve-ish and Dad had been dead for a year, Kylefra had awakened me at midnight. She'd been dressed in black then, too, and veiled. The fabric had rustled as she'd lead me down the _megaron_'s corridors. Our shadows had melded in the whale-oil lanterns' light.

The shrine of the _Despotnia Algeos_had been smaller back then. Kylefra had reserved a seat for me behind the altar. It had been a darkened crevice, where none of the others could see me. Kylefra had called it "tradition".

No problem, I'd thought. My father had apparently watched their rituals from the same place. How bad could it be? After all, I'd already seen the Trojan War at close quarters, watched Dad's gladiatorial matches, tolerated "Auntie" Hong's public displays of sexuality, and even seen one or two results of her experiments after she'd patched them up…

Yeah. Not enough.

That night had been an initiation for two new "Sisters". They'd brought a dozen manacled slaves in; six for each Initiate. Practice.

They'd also brought trays full of polished tools, blades, and other things.

Kylefra's hands had tightened around my shoulders. She really shouldn't have bothered. After the first minute, I'd found myself frozen to the chair, gripping it like the proverbial drowning man's rope.

I can't tell you exactly what it was. Maybe the near-total darkness. Maybe the way that the tiny room magnified the screams. Or smells. Heck, maybe it was the sense that I really _was _trapped there for all intents and purposes, and wasn't entirely sure what they'd do if Kylefra revealed my presence.

But it hadn't been a pleasant experience regardless.

When the ceremony had concluded and the other cultists had left, Kylefra had cupped my chin and thrust her tongue through my lips. She slid it around in my mouth for a while. I suspect that I was largely unresponsive.

She'd finally pulled back with a lazy smile. A couple drops of saliva glistened on her lips.

"And _that's _how your father enjoyed himself, Harold."

I hadn't said anything. She'd lead me back to my room, and I'd stumbled after her. As she was closing the door, though, she'd offered me "much more" if I ever felt so inclined.

I haven't.

Oholotarix had discovered my little fieldtrip a day later. My insomnia had tipped him off enough to pry the story out of me. He'd blown a gasket.

It's the only time I can remember when anyone cursed Kylefra out in public. In Iraiina, no less. She'd jeered back in the same language, and Oholotarix had knocked her to the ground. If his officers hadn't restrained him, he may well have gone for her right there with a sword.

It had been the closest that the Sisterhood and the Army had ever come to a direct confrontation. Odikweos had smoothed things over. As always.

I've been kinda meh about sex since then.

Back to the present, though...

The three of us continued deeper into the Walkerium's labyrinth. Kylefra lead me by one hand while she brushed the wall with the other, looking for navigational markings. She hummed a memory-rhyme under her breath. Her sandals tapped the stone.

Dad had left behind specific instructions about his future tomb. He'd been particularly insistent about keeping the looters out, which made navigation a pain.

I felt myself descending. Not long now.

A door creaked open. I blinked at the shaft of lamplight.

My father's body rested in the Walkerium's inner sanctum. It was pasty and pale; paler even than the day he'd died. His loose-fitting black canvas clothing only added to the effect. Polished leather boots shone in the lamplight. In retrospect, I'd probably made a mistake when I'd allowed them to embalm Dad's body "Uncle Joe style", as his will had charmingly put it.

Dad's _Xoanon_ also waited for us. The statue was gold rather than wood, but shared its flat, upright posture with most other _Xoana_. I poured wine on its base.

I realized that my arm was hovering near the corpse's eyes, where the two coins rested. Unlike our counterparts further south, we don't have religious taboos about touching the dead.

I withdrew my hand before it made contact.

While I'm on the subject, I've always suspected that the first _Hwalkarz _overestimated his ability to shape Great Achaea's culture. And I say that without condescension: dead or not, thinking about Dad can still make my blood freeze. Great king and father overall, but he had ways of making sure you didn't cross him twice.

Oh, he changed things. Going from bronze lamellar to smokeless powder in a generation ain't chump change, as he might have put it. But notice the "we" I'm using.

See, I'm half American on my father's side. Montana dirt farmers of German-Scots-Irish stock, if you're feeling picky. Ignore a few details, and you could even spin Dad's time-travelling conquest of Homeric Greece as a rags-to-riches story:

Born in Montana. Joins the Coast Guard. Gets caught in a temporal distortion that transplants the island of Nantucket to 1250 BC. Betrays the newly-christened "Republic of Nantucket" to start an empire in what would have become Britain. Fails. Tries again in Greece. Succeeds. Beats aforementioned Republic of Nantucket in a world war, along with Babylon and the Hittite Empire. Nabs half of Anatolia in the bargain. Dies of assassination, courtesy of his ex-_Stasi _chief of secret police. His daughter and sadomasochistic doctor-cum-girlfriend die with him (no complaints on that count). As American as apple pie.

…Well, okay. Not really. But whatever else his enemies may have called him, _Wannax _William Walker was American. A ruthless one, maybe, but then so was his namesake.

My mother, on the other hand, was Iraiina. A chieftain's daughter. Unfortunately, she'd never managed to stamp much Iraiina on me – and it _is _unfortunate, since they're an admirable people in a lot of ways. Mom had always seemed quiet when I told her about my hunting trips with the other Achaean lordlets. Regretful, or something. Not that we talked much after Dad died.

Anyway.

I lifted my hands and muttered a quick prayer, laced with nudging reminders of my past offerings. Not that it was likely to do much, but it couldn't hurt.

I felt a tap on my shoulder, and turned to Kylefra again. She pointed to a second room tucked behind the first. I squinted.

"Your surprise is waiting for you, _Wannax_," Kylefra said.

_Oh, crap._

A young man and woman lay on the inner altar, both dressed in white chitons that looked like they'd been bleached about a dozen times. Their hands and feet were almost as meticulously washed. I noticed a glazed look in their eyes. Drugged, probably. The Sisterhood of the _Despotnia Algeos _had all sorts of narcotics.

Speaking of the Sisters, one of them was busily cutting the young people's hair and tossing it in a fire, in imitation of an animal sacrifice. You could see other carry-overs as well: the barleycorns on the victims' heads, their unblemished skins…even their atrophied limbs, "untouched by the goad".

On a personal note, I've never cared for this sort of thing. A man offers wine to a god because both of them think that wine tastes good. The implications of offering up a person are disturbing at both ends of the transaction.

At least Kylefra wasn't sacrificing hecatombs' worth these days.

Oholotarix glared at her.

Oh, yes: Oholotarix. The number two or three guy in Great Achaea, depending on how you measured it. He'd probably seen his fair share of sacrifices as an Iraiina warrior, but his lot had mostly just strangled people and thrown them in bogs. Or beheaded them. They hadn't shared the _Despotnia Algeos_'s creativity.

Otto must have been in his early forties by then (I'd never asked for an exact accounting), but he was still trim. Mostly from the centuries-early _pankration _that Dad had introduced.I mention it only because I could clearly see the muscles knot in his forearms when he clenched his fists.

"Perhaps His Majesty doesn't wish to see your _rituals_."

Oholotarix had spat the last word. Kylefra laughed. Her reply came somewhat thicker and more Iraiina-accented than usual, except for the American nickname.

"Ah, but Otto! This is in His Majesty's honor. And it wouldn't be _polite _to insult the Lady of Pain by stopping now…"

She raised an eyebrow.

"…would it, Lord Harold?"

"What do you want, Kylefra?" I said.

She snapped her fingers. The Sisters paused in mid-ritual. One of the scalpels hung a few inches above the young man's eye.

"Oh, I'd just hoped you could meet one of my friends from abroad," she said. "With an open mind. That's not too much to ask, is it?"

The scalpel glinted.

"Just meet?"

"Just meet."

"I'm not going to agree to anything, you know," I said.

Kylefra clasped her hands behind her back and spun around like some parody of a mischievous schoolgirl. Her dress spun around her like flower petals opening and closing.

"Ahhh, but you _will_, Harold Walker, King of Men. Because you're a romantic."

She grinned and led us to the appointed meeting room with far too much spring in her step. Those steps echoed on the stone walls – which were barely head-high, since only women tended my father's body. I ducked.

Kylefra opened a small door behind a snake-headed statue. A candle burned inside. We stepped through.

A man in a cloth headdress and white linen was waiting. He was black-haired and tannish, like a native of Tartessos or the Levant.

He lay face-down in front of me and grabbed my knees, suppliant-style.

"Hail _Wa-nekhs _Harold Wal-kher, King of Men, Chosen of—"

"And you're…?" I said.

He stopped at that, but only for a moment.

"Pareherwenemef, _Wa-nekhs_. First Charioteer of His Majesty, First Brave of the Army, Superintendent of the Horse –"

"Rameses II's son?"

A nod.

"You're one of the younger ones, right? The one who was at Kadesh?"

"Yes, Majesty."

I didn't miss the tense shoulders or wider-than-usual eyes. In my experience (and Dad's), informality tends to make most Bronze Agers jumpy. Myself included, at times.

Though I draw some consolation from the idea that informality is so foreign to everybody at my court that we have to do it artificially. So it really _is _ceremonial, if you think about it long enough.

"And you're asking me for help with your priest problem," I said.

He scowled.

"The scum at Thebes and the traitor Khaemweset. Yes."

"As I understand it – ugh, look…Just stand up and stop fondling my legs. Good. So anyway, as _I _understand it, your reactionary brother and his priests control most of Lower Egypt."

"Ah…Please forgive me, _Wa-nekhs_, but it's Upper Egypt."

"Oh. Right. The geography-reversal thing. But my point stands that you're losing the war."

"We have your arts on our side."

"They've got the manpower. And iron. And for all that your priests dislike the "New Learning", they're building those Fergusons quickly enough."

"I admit this."

His answer had come out with just the slightest growled undertone. Not directed at me, of course. More rueful than anything. The guy wasn't stupid.

"They're already marching on Pi-Rameses, right?" I said.

"If Kashtiliash and his _Nantukhtar _witch-queen Hollard were not aiding them-"

"They are, though," I said. "So again: convince me."

But it was my witch who answered for him.

"Adventure," Kylefra said.

I snorted.

"_You _just want to start up an Egyptian branch of the Sisterhood, Kylefra," I said.

She laughed once, sharply.

"See? That's what I like about you, Harry. Now if only you had a _little _more ruthlessness to go with that paranoia."

"Which brings me back to why I should help him—"

"Adventure," she repeated. "Sorry, but you're still Daurthunnicar's grandson and Walker's kid."

"It's a little more complicated—"

"Or do you think I've forgotten widdle eight-year-old Harry asking me to recite Iraiina epics?" she said. "And that's on top of the Achaean garbage you were already getting from Odikweos. Not to mention your, ah, fights…"

She was half right, and we both knew it. The epics part was true. Kylefra had always been a captivating storyteller when she cared enough to do it. Not that I'd asked her again after the Initiation incident.

The 'fights' thing…not quite. Yeah, I'd kept dragging my skinny carcass off the mat during _pankration _sessions with other noblemen's sons. Yes, I'd fought a lot over points of honor. And just as often, I'd lost. Oholotarix had never really managed to coax an athlete out of my bony frame – all five-six of it, since I hadn't grown much after thirteen. Not bad for the Bronze Age, but not great, either. As a bonus, I'd gotten Mom's fine features and soft skin, which meant I cut easily.

But here's the trick to fighting: You don't need to be fearless _per se_. Or huge. Or particularly durable, even. You only need to be more afraid of what Dad will do if he finds out that you backed down.

If you look at it objectively, I guess I can't blame him too much. Iraiina and Achaean noblemen alike don't think much of kings who lose face. So even years after his death, I was still putting in my daily quota of bruises, cuts, and rattled brains. It had only been my campaign against the Ringapi the year before that had made it all worthwhile.

…And I _had _enjoyed the Ringapi campaign.

But like I said, Kylefra had known about all that.

Anyway, enough whining.

"Okay, Pareherwenemef, here's the thing—"

I heard a scream, followed by a gurgle. I shot to my feet. The sound had been dry and shortened. A formalized shriek, like the ones at bull sacrifices to get the gods to pay attention…

I jerked my hand from Kylefra's grasp and threw the door open. I found about what I'd expected: two corpses lying in a red pool on the altar, while the Sisters caught their blood in iron _tannurs_.

They'd opened the young people's throats. Both victims were looking at the ceiling ; easier to cut the cords that way. (Which I only knew – in case you're wondering – because Kylefra had told me. Several times.)

There were other refinements that I won't mention.

Kylefra leaned on the doorframe.

"They'll be flaying them soon, Highness," she said. "Care for a thigh-bone?"

"Bury them."

She touched my neck, gently running her fingers down my jugular.

"You're so much fun to mess with," she said. "Oh, all right. I've had my fun."

After forcibly removing her hand, I turned to Oholotarix.

"Otto?"

"Yes, _Wannax_?"

"What's the latest production on the Winchesters and Nordenfelts?"

"You're not thinking about _going_?" Oholotarix said.

"I am," I said. "Stats, please."

"We could equip a couple regiments, but—"

"Then see what Cuddy's doing. The younger one. I need an engineer. Did the Fifth and Seventh come back from the Danube yet? Yes? Great. Get them ready. Oh, and grab Odikweos, too. I don't trust him while I'm away. Regent my ass."

"As you say."

"And since she's so peachy-keen on the expedition, Kylefra's coming with us," I said.

The witch in question froze for a quarter of a second, and then forced a smile. She made a great show of straightening her dress.

"If the _Wannax_wishes."

"I do."

I turned to Pareherwenemef, and tipped my goblet. Wine splattered on stone.

"Whoever first breaks his oath, so may his brains flow on the ground," I said.

Pareherwenemef nodded.

"May it happen that way," he replied.

So that was one difficulty hurdled. Cunning and untrustworthy they may be, but Egyptians know that Nature abhors a perjurer with roughly the same vehemence that it does a vacuum.

No such need with Oholotarix. He'd eaten my salt, and my Dad's before me.

Kylefra clicked her tongue. Who knows? Maybe I had some loyalty there, too. Just a really, really weird variety.

"And just _when _will we depart, O King of Men?" she said.

"Let's just say it rests on the knees of the gods."

She rolled her eyes.

"In other words, 'I don't know, but here's a cute saying,'" she said.

"Yup. Now if you'll excuse me, Otto and I have some planning to do."

I gave the gathered party a curt nod, and stomped out. There's an art to stomping. You want to get just the right pitch. Especially this time.

It took a minute to find a Sister who hadn't covered herself in blood yet. Fortunately, most of them didn't share Kylefra's taste for _lèse majesté_. One of them led us out.

We emerged.

I breathed.

Only when we'd walked some distance in the sunlight did Oholotarix bristle. His face reddened behind that brownish-blond hair.

Iraiina have an irritating habit of telling you exactly what they think of your decisions. Like old-school Achaean nobles, only worse.

Oholotarix had lived in _Meizon Achaea _since its founding, but he'd been one of Dad's Iraiina warriors before that. Our police state hadn't leached all the honesty out yet. It still shined through here and there.

Like now, for instance.

"_That _was foolish, Majesty. To decide foreign policy just because you want to one-up that cultist bitch—"

"I planned to intervene in Egypt three weeks ago."

"And with an _oath! _Irresponsible, dangerous, childish—Wait, what?"

I shrugged.

"First off, if you'd listened closely, I didn't exactly swear to do _anything_. Just mentioned an oath. Second, we need a client state on Babylon's Levantine border. Why d'you think Babylon prefers Egypt reactionary? I just wanted Kylefra to suggest it. She can't back out now."

(Incidentally, my people have a special term for a guy who manipulates oaths like that. Roughly translated from Achaean, you could render it "skilled in thieving and swearing". Moving on, though...)

"Why should you care who suggested it?" Oholotarix said. "You lost face -"

"You're staying behind. Does that answer your question?"

His eyes narrowed.

"Why would Your Majesty deny me the opportunity to serve—Oh."

"We'll be taking most of Kylefra's subordinates along with us," I said. "I'm signing a decree organizing a professional priesthood…I think the _Despotnia Algeos _could use some competition while I'm away. Be sure that they get it."

Oholotarix chuckled.

"What, like the Nantucketers?"

"A murder cult is one thing, and a useful one. Unfortunately. A state religion is another. It's just a matter of making sure that the first doesn't become the second."

"I take back my earlier objection."

"I thought you might. Of course, Kylefra was right about one thing."

"What's that, _Wannax_?"

I put my arm around Oholotarix's back. It barely stretched that far. As I've already noted: five-six.

"_Adventure_, Otto," I said.


	2. Chapter 2

**Neayoruk, ca. 17 A.E (ca. 1233 B.C.)**

It's not easy organizing a transcontinental invasion, but the appointed day had finally arrived.

My people have many virtues. Punctuality is not one of them. The sun had already reached too far past its zenith for lunch. Feasts came later these days than before Dad arrived – as you'd expect with a _Wannax _who'd grown up with electric lights – and it was a bit too early for dinner.

But the noblemen of Achaea nothing if not flexible (and hungry), so we'd soldiered through a sort of extended lunchner, running through five hours, large quantities of mutton, goat meat, one of our older cows, several baskets of Phaecian raisins, and gallons upon gallons of wine.

The meat cooked on coals. As each new animal was brought in, servants would distribute the cooked hearts and livers first. The rest sizzled on bronze spikes that the Nantucketers insist on calling _kebabs_, regardless of their local title. Twenty-six officers, priests, and bureaucrats ate in a row along the wall - twenty-five men and Kylefra. Empty, almost. No lyre-player, either. For security reasons, I hadn't invited the beggars and goat-herds to the great hall as often as I'd done once. Unlike what a _proper_ king would do. Should do.

I looked out the window. Men in gray clothing shuffled past equally gray, blocky houses, dragging gray barrels through gray streets. A cracked barrel provided a splash of color. Dried oranges had spilled onto the dock.

It had rained recently, and Neayoruk's smog blanket had temporarily lifted. The sea air had some snap to it that morning; the sort of salty smell that wakes you up when you catch it. From the distance, I caught sight of one of the new frigates coming in: long and black, with a red painted prow.

_The hollow ships resound with cannons' roar  
And acclamation; every voice upraised  
Resounding for the Wolf Lord, glorious King…_

On the eve of the Egyptian intervention, Achaeans still called anything over a hundred miles a long voyage. I'm told that Tartessians and Nantucketers joked about our captains' habit of hugging the coastline in frigates.

But that's what I had the American Quarter for. Dad had dubbed it the "Gated Community", always with a smirk. I'd only gotten the joke years later, when I'd run across the phrase in one of his sociology texts.

"Jason Cuddy reporting, Lord Walker."

I looked up.

Cuddy The Younger looked back through thick glasses.

Most of my staff shot glares at him. He sniffed, running a hand through the once-curly hair that he'd only wrestled into a straight part with the liberal application of Nantucket's "gel". Mostly whale-oil-based, I think.

Kylefra licked her lips and winked at him. He stiffened and looked away. Quickly.

Like most of the American Quarter's inhabitants, Jason had roughly the same claim on American identity that I did: Not much. But the people who'd followed Dad from Nantucket had insisted on raising their half-Achaean kids as if they were still back home. Right down to their somewhat effeminate insistence that their wives should cook the animals they'd killed while hunting.

This, in turn, had left me with a small colony of half-Achaean Americans who preferred sending their kids off to "seasonal tours" of the Republic. (Before the coups, anyway.) I like to believe that my subjects' travel habits caused Nantucket's internal security service as much of a headache as it did ours. In any case, the Achaean nobility hated 'em enough that they'd never survive without my patronage. And they knew it.

"Well?" I said. "Are the maps ready?"

Cuddy seemed to snap to attention, and cleared his throat.

"Do you want the long version or short one, Lord Walker?"

"Whichever ."

He gave me the long version. After combing through the War College's mishmash of 20th century maps, our own coastal surveys, and purloined information from our enemies, we'd assembled a decentish group of maps for our officers. Whenever necessary, we'd marked time zones as well.

Translating the mass of Egyptian six-digit military maps had proved especially annoying, since they'd numbered their horizontal coordinates from right to left like their hieroglyphs. Their system for labeling hills didn't conform to ours, either. And then there was the hassle of copying contour intervals recorded in Babylonian cubits, Egyptian "royal" cubits, meters, _khets_, _djesers_, yards, steps, reeds, and dozens of other measurements from cultures too stubborn to use Mycenaean feet like civilized people.

But the maps were ready.

As for the rest…

"The last shipment of parched grain should be arriving in an hour," Cuddy said. "Wine bags, too—"

"I don't like these pine-built merchantmen," I said. "They'll crumple under fire. Shit, a few still have steering oars."

Jason Cuddy frowned.

"Our frigates can beat the Babylonian navy pretty easy," he said. "And oars work well if you're becalmed."

He must have caught the collective growl around the room, since he ducked his head and hastily added, "…my Lord Walker."

"I'm not worried about Babylon," I said.

"Then I'm not sure what you—"

"What happens if the Republic's frigates force the Pillars?" I said.

"We lose…um, Lord Walker."

Silence.

"Coward!" somebody finally shouted.

The speaker fell silent when I raised my hand.

I sighed. Well, it was good that Cuddy had told me, at least. Honest advice usually means that you can't shoot the messenger. That had been an important point of instruction for Dad – almost an obsession: _If they're afraid of you, they won't tell you anything. And if they don't tell you anything, Harold, you're fucking __blind__._

"Thanks, Cuddy."

He bowed and stepped out.

I tried to let my mind drift to the hearth-fire's warmth, stirring the wine with my finger. I noticed a slave waiting at my elbow with a copper ewer. Oh. Right. I held out a hand. He poured water on it.

Achaea's power elite bickered and bantered in small groups; usually two to each small, sponge-washed table. Dad's attempt to introduce plates and tablecloths had been largely unsuccessful – why bother when you can just clean the tabletop better? – but at least a couple had knives and forks. The rest picked at the meat with their fingers. Notice that I said _picked_, not "tore". Lack of silverware doesn't make you a barbarian, whatever the assholes in Nantucket think.

I motioned for the herald. He carried the piece of honor to Oholotarix's table – a sizzling cut of pork that practically dripped fat and oil. Oholotarix accepted my offering of heart disease with an upraised wine cup.

I reached for the bread dish, dabbed a piece with sheep marrow, and put a few onion slices on top as flavoring. I took another a bite and a half before the sensation in my stomach went from stuffed to nauseous.

Well, it had to end sometime. I dusted off a few crumbs and stood. The rest of the hall stood with me.

"Okay, gentlemen," I said, "I don't know about you, but I'm taking a bath before the voyage. Feel free to continue eating. We have a tough campaign ahead."

Rousing cheers.

"Oh, and Oholotarix? Remember to distribute the rest of the food to the beggars, would you?"

He nodded.

I said the necessary pleasantries and then proceeded for the bathing-room. Even with the watered wine, I felt a slight buzz on my way.

* * *

When I sank into my bath a couple minutes later, I finally allowed the adrenaline that had been pumping through my body to subside a little. Who needs coffee when you have an upcoming war?

I allowed the hearth-heated water to massage my arms and work out the knots in my stomach. They'd even provided a basket of pomegranates and curds from sheep's milk. Metal pressed against the back of my head, lulling…wait.

_Ka-Click._

My eyes shot open. I jolted to the left, nearly upending the tub in the process. Water splashed. I flailed for the revolver that I kept at the side of the bath.

Missing.

And then, I heard that just-off-key voice.

"Too slo-o-o-w, Harold."

Kylefra bounced my revolver in her hand, as if testing the weight.

"What are you doing—"

"Shall we bury you in divine raiment, King of Men?" she said. "Coated with fragrant oil and honey?"

She pulled the trigger. I couldn't quite suppress the flinch.

_Click_.

Empty chambers. Kylefra rolled the bullets in her palm, grinning. She ruffled my hair and dropped the revolver in my bathwater with a _plunk_.

"Look, I'm kind of in the middle of something here," I said.

Kylefra maintained her grin, holding up a bullet between her thumb and forefinger. Grease gave the jacket a brassy sheen in the lamplight. She dropped it into the bath.

_Plip._

Her shadow crept along the wall - tall and thin like a young palm tree, as the poets like to put it.

"I'm disappointed that you didn't ask a slave-girl to bathe you," she said. "Especially since you don't have a wife…Shame that I wasn't born dog-faced, don't you think?" she said.

"Um—huh?"

_Plip._

"…Because then you'd have an _excuse_ to ignore me."

For some reason, an image sprang to my mind: Kylefra drawing the Nile's water under the eyes of Egyptian overseers, her hands rubbed raw from working the _shaduf_.

_Plip._

It suddenly occurred to me that I just _might_ have drawn her into something I shouldn't have. Kylefra had never received combat training like the "Claws" of her order

My witch sighed theatrically.

"I don't geld _all_ my lovers, you know," she said.

While I began rethinking the whole guilt thing, Kylefra circled the bathtub, drumming her fingers along its copper edge. I caught my shoulders hunching as she passed behind me. She leaned forward until her chin rested on my back.

"Of course, it couldn't be…normal, either," she said. "I'd go easy on you, of course. Just a few toys to let you know who's in charge. Ropes, and a knout, and something to muffle the scream-"

"Aaaand we're done here," I said.

But she wasn't. Kylefra pitched her voice high and girlish. Her hands settled on my shoulders, fingernails pressing just at the edge of breaking the skin.

"Oh-h-h," she said. "I know. Maybe the King of Men wants his pet nightingale to cry like a tame rooster instead. Let's see…what's the Achaean male fantasy, hm? You could discover me playing with my maidens by the river bank. And…oh yes. Tossing a ball or something. And my maidens would _flee_ at the sight of such a muscular, manly interloper, and you, ah, _māratriis_ …"

Her eyes drifted a bit.

"Shall I spread my legs like a good little Achaean wife?" Kylefra said. "Because _that_ is something you'll _never_ get, Harold _Hwalkarz_."

"You lost my suspension of disbelief at manly and muscular."

She smiled at me. Well, smirked. It was the expression she always wore when she was eyeing a new slave shipment.

"…Or perhaps you want me to weave you something?" she said. "A purple cloak with flowers sewn into the hem, perhaps, like Odikweos's boring, _boring _woman would sew?"

"I'll pass."

"…Or a funeral shroud?"

"That's a little morbid—"

Sharp little pains lanced through my shoulders as her fingernails pressed a little too far. I felt warmth. A light trickle of blood was running down my right arm.

Kylefra put her face alongside mine, cheek to cheek. Her smile dropped.

"I can guess why you ordered most of the Sisterhood's leadership to come to Egypt with you, Harry," she said. "Oholotarix will _not_ have an easy time."

The water had gone from warm to tepid. I could feel my muscles tensing accordingly.

"Opposing the king's regent is treason," I said.

"Opposing the _Despotnia Algeos_ is blasphemy."

Kylefra's Iraiina accent had thickened – clipped and guttural like someone with a cough. It's a great language for threatening people, Iraiina.

"Then you're free to appeal to her," I said. "As for the other gods, they don't appreciate it when you pray with the king's blood on your hands."

She must have taken the hint, since her fingers loosened again. Nails withdrew from shallow punctures.

Her dress rustled as she stood up again.

"Kylefra."

She stopped at the door.

"What, Harold?"

"You can't get you want from me, either."

"Oh? And _what_ do you imagine I want?" she said.

"You're not Alice Hong," I said. "And I'm not my father."

Her hands tightened, and for just a moment she turned around. Eyes narrowed. She tensed her lips enough to form a rough approximation of a smile. A very unpleasant one.

"Oh, you're _certainly_ not your father," she said.

And with that, Kylefra turned to leave. Her dress fluttered dramatically enough; Alice Hong had designed it with one eye toward the frozen-in-time plays that twentieth century people had watched on giant screens.

I found myself staring at Kylefra as she stormed out. Those swaying hips were very difficult to look away from, accentuated as they were by her tight black dress…

So I banged my elbow on the bathtub.

Hard.

"I need a new surrogate family," I muttered.

* * *

The royal galleass loomed almost black against a dimming horizon. It was an Achaean's brainchild, actually; Tecton's guild had built it way back in the Hittite War. They'd realized that Alston-Kurlelo's frigates weren't ideal for Mediterranean conditions, and had adapted a Venetian design.

My people aren't really sailors, though.

Over the years, I've okayed a lot of banner designs for my new regiments. The officers usually suggest the theme, and they're surprisingly diverse: images of cattle, of plows, of swords, of dancers, and even of marriage processions. But only the 9th Guards – a Taphian regiment – ever proposed one with a ship. Even then, it was one of the single-decked, kitchenless pentekonters that had become obsolete a decade before.

Soldiers clogged the harbors. They swarmed around the boats like flies on spilled milk.

Regiment after regiment walked up the gangplanks. They embarked by platoons: three squads of three fireteams, with each platoon headed by one of the minor gentry. Younger sons, usually. Many still wore iron breastplates made from segmented strips – like their bronze predecessors, but dulled with paint. At least the officers had stopped wearing horsehair plumes.

We'd made some progress with smokeless powder during Dad's reign. Some. Not enough. For all intents and purposes, Great Achaea was going into the Egyptian civil war with a black powder army.

Ringapi troops with drooping moustaches and tartan trousers marched with Winchesters strapped to their backs. A few Achaeans from the Neayoruk regiments carried metal tubes. Cylinders stuck out from the ends like flower bulbs. Cuddy The Elder's new black-powder RPGs; the Schenkl fuses had permitted all sorts of interesting toys, though not in large numbers.

And then, there was the heavier stuff: six-pounder Krupp breechloaders, Gatling batteries, rockets, and our first attempt at poison gas. Hopefully, the last wouldn't be necessary.

Each fireteam also carried a single-barrel Nordenfelt - fourteen-pound weapons that looked like enlarged rifles except for the tripods and top-mounted magazines. Cuddy had promised a hundred and eighty rounds a minute with a good manual operator. I had my doubts.

But then, it's not like our opponents had _any_ light machine guns, so beggars can't be choosers.

By the time I walked up the galleass's ladder-plank, the moon was already out. Moonlight reflected off the boarding pikes that my people still prefer to cutlasses and rifles.

We set sail.

I spent a while walking across the ship, encouraging the soldiers and sailors as a commander should. Except the captive oarsmen, since that would have been bad taste.

The night wind filled the sails' bellies. The canvas absorbed it easily enough. Younger sailors these days didn't carry as many trinkets to protect them against the winds from Thrace.

_Putting their trust in vessels swiftly sailing  
The seas they cross, the King of Men's retainers  
Swift as a wing, or as a thought, their vessels…_

I wrapped myself in a cloak. For a while, I watched the stern, where the captain nodded and signaled to his men almost hypnotically. I occasionally saw a light from shore, where shepherds must have built a campfire. When my eyelids finally got heavy, I listened to the sound of broad, fir oarblades sloshing through the wine-dark sea.


End file.
